


Destroy Something

by ZadieWrites



Series: Thranduil Getting Over His Wife Series [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Elves Cutting Their Hair As a Sign of Grief, Emotional Thranduil, F/M, Gen, Grieving, I wrote this because I was sad, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mourning, Pre-The Hobbit, Rare Elvish Tears, hair cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 05:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18653533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZadieWrites/pseuds/ZadieWrites
Summary: Thranduil's wife died only seven days ago. Her last words didn't provide him much closure. He goes out into the woods to find some clarity.





	Destroy Something

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic elaborating on Thranduil's tragedies.

Thranduil hadn’t slept in days. Every time he tried to close his eyes he saw fire and heard the screams his wife had made before she died. 

 

He’d stopped eating but he hadn’t stopped drinking. But he hadn’t drank at all the night of her death. He’d just sat down in silence, numbness and sat still and awake all night. It was when the sun rose that night that he started drinking. He’d drank until he blacked out, drank until he vomited. He avoided contact with anyone. He’d kept himself holed up in his chambers. 

 

Today, the seventh day after it happened, was the first day he was stepping outside at all, and it was a cold night, with a very light snowfall, as winter was nearly upon them. Frost laced the soil and crumpled leaves that were once green and vibrant. 

 

Thranduil was walking through the cold, dying forest, wearing a black tunic, grey leggings and a silvery black cape which was too thin to provide any protection against the cold. But in all honesty he barely felt the cold at all. 

 

Thranduil was holding his sword as well . . . he needed to destroy something. In order for him to have closure he needed to destroy something. 

 

He weaved through bare trees, and stepped over icy rocks. He didn’t know exactly where he was going . . . until he saw it. It was a pool of water, with a thin layer of ice over it, a circular wall of grey stones holding up the round body. A stream of water from the river above it flowed into the pool, and would seep through it, using gaps in the rocks. An endless cycle. The river ran down a short, rocky cliff, its stream polishing the river rocks as it went, and fell down into the pool. 

 

Thranduil stepped up to the pool, looking into its icy, dark depths, watching the snowflakes fall, softly into the waters. It was most likely freezing in there. Good. 

 

He undid the chain that held his cape in place, letting its silky fabric fall to the hard soil. He unclipped the thick, leather belt that contained his sword’s holster, and took that off as well. Then he put his hands behind his back and unbuttoned his tunic, pulling it off him, dropping it on top of the cape. He was now completely shirtless, feeling the chill against the bare skin of his pale torso. He swung one leg over the rock wall of the pool, then the other. He didn’t bother taking off his boots. Then he dropped into the freezing waters. He gritted his teeth. When he was crouching like this, the water came up to his collarbone. And it was cold. Very cold. But that was okay. He needed that. 

 

Thranduil closed his blue eyes, leaning his head against a rock, feeling the mist from the river’s stream affect him. His legs would begin to lose feeling soon.

 

He reached over the wall, and grabbed his sword, encased in a black, wooden sheath. He brought it over to him, his other hand gripping the sheath. Then he separated the two, sliding the wood off of the metal, feeling the satisfying hiss it made as he did so. He put down the sheath, holding the sword in his hands. 

 

It was a fine blade, as any blade he owned would be. If he remembered correctly this particular sword was a gift from Imladris. 

 

A snowflake fell onto the very tip, balancing for a moment, before falling. Starlight glinted against its surface. 

 

Thranduil looked at the sword for a few more moments, taking deep, slow breaths, his chest, well-muscled from centuries of battle, rising and falling steadily, even as he shivered from the water, preparing himself for what he was about to do.

 

Then he reached one arm behind his head. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair one more time before he took all of it in his hand. His hair being so thick, it filled his hand. He pulled his hair back, holding it above his shoulders. Then he took his hand that was holding the sword, and raised it. 

 

He closed his eyes again, as he swung the sword, in one fluid motion, cutting his hair as short as he could cut it, strands of platinum falling into the water like silk, like clouds and most of his hair remaining in his hand. 

 

He felt the striking lightness of what remained of his hair, falling down, at about jaw-length. He knew it would be choppy and uneven, he had cut it with a sword, for Valar’s sake, but he wasn’t going to bother fixing it. He hadn’t done this for vanity. Hardly. 

 

Thranduil held his fist outside the pool, suddenly letting go, letting his hair fall onto the forest floor. 

 

It was done. He had destroyed something, and in doing so, achieved a strange sort of finality. 

 

He ducked his head under the small waterfall that fell from the river, letting it soak his now-short hair and he would only now allow himself to cry. In the winter night, with no one to hear him or see him do it. As cold water fell down his face, he began to weep for his wife. He began to weep for the eternal life she had deserved. He wept for a mother Legolas would not remember. He wept for the death of the strongest person he had ever known. 

 

His shoulders shook, as his crying increased in intensity, he held his hands against the rock wall of the waterfall, as freezing water fell over him, numbing him. 

 

Thranduil hadn’t cried in a very long time. He hadn’t even cried when his father died. It felt strange to be crying for the first time in two thousand years, in the same way it felt strange to be missing the weight of his long, uncut hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I just love the idea of hair-cutting being such a difficult thing for elves, especially Thranduil, and I also like the idea of elves cutting their hair while mourning.


End file.
